Then he smiled. Guess he wouldn’t be needing his Colt after all. The room was empty . . . except for the slender figure on the bed, where Mary was curled up on the blankets, a chocolate ribbon of silk, sound asleep. She hadn’t even heard him come in.
Fargo turned and quietly shut and locked the door, then hung his hat and his gun belt on the dresser. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he took his boots off standing up, then removed the rest of his clothing and tiptoed to the other side of the bed.
It was far too hot and humid in New Orleans to sleep under the blankets, so he contented himself with sliding down next to her, and wrapping her in his arms. She murmured softly in her sleep and he planted a warm kiss on her neck.
He felt her beginning to respond to him and so he whispered in her ear, “Mary, it’s Fargo.”
She arched her back against him and in the sexiest voice he’d ever heard said, “I knew it. I knew you’d be safe, Skye. I prayed for you, too.”
“I didn’t know what happened to you,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Just fine.” She rolled over and planted a very warm, soft kiss on his lips. “But I’d be a whole lot finer if you made love to me, Skye.”
He placed his hands on either side of her face. “Mary, you know I can’t stay here, right? You know I’m moving on?”
Her eyes were dark and serious, then she nodded. “I know, Skye. You aren’t the kind of man to stay around. But I’d . . . can you make me feel safe for just one more day? I know it’s just pretend, but can you make love to me like we did out at the grotto?”
His hands found her breasts and his lips pressed forward on hers. Suddenly, he knew that at least some of his money would go to buy a better life for her. Maybe get her started on a little place of her own somewhere. She could learn about horses and cattle.
“Yes,” she moaned into his ear as he gently squeezed her nipples. “Just like that, Skye.” She opened her legs to him, shifting her hips so that he could enter her. Things moved quickly and soon she was climaxing beneath him, shuddering and moaning. They continued their lovemaking until they were both exhausted, and Mary fell asleep, curled up once more in his arms, feeling safer, no doubt, than she ever had in her life.
Fargo drifted into a light doze himself, thinking that tomorrow he would ride west and see what the frontier might bring him.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section from the next novel in the exciting
THE TRAILSMAN #320: OREGON OUTRAGE
The big man in buckskins leaned against the wall near the closed door of the barn, which smelled of manure, moldy hay, and the tobacco smoke that drifted in thready clouds. The whole place hummed with the talk of the men gathered around the cockpit, a makeshift ring formed by rough boards.
Around half of the pit was a makeshift grandstand to accommodate those who wanted a close look at the fight that was about to begin. Those who hadn’t arrived early enough to get a seat had to stand around the other part of the pit, and there was plenty of pushing and shoving for position.
Skye Fargo’s lake blue eyes watched as the men jostled one another and crowded closer to the ring. Some of them were well dressed, a banker or two, and maybe a lawyer. Others wore rough work clothes that hadn’t been washed in a while. According to Dodge Calder, Fargo’s friend, one of them was the town marshal.
Fargo didn’t look like any of them. His fringed buckskins seemed a little out of place, and it was clear that he was accustomed to being outside in the open, not closed up in a building like the bankers.
Only a couple of women were present, both of them soiled doves from some local saloon, Fargo figured. Their faces were avid with anticipation, and it was likely that they’d make a good bit of money from the customers who’d be eager for their favors later, after their blood had been stirred by the fight to the death between two roosters.
Money changed hands and bets went down. Fargo heard an occasional nervous laugh, indicating that some of the bettors were a little unsure they’d made the right choice.
On one side of the ring a man with a corncob pipe clamped between his teeth watched as another man took the hood off the orange-colored head of a fighting cock with its comb and wattles trimmed so that its opponent in the coming battle couldn’t grab them with its bill.
The man with the pipe removed it from his mouth and breathed a cloud of smoke into the cock’s face to agitate it, not that it didn’t appear agitated enough already.
Both men wore ragged shirts and denim pants that showed hard use. Lank hair hung down from their sweat- stained hats.
On the other side of the pit, the handler of the opposing cock spoke soothingly to it and almost seemed to cuddle it as he checked on the short, sharp metal spurs affixed to its legs where its own spurs would have been. Fargo couldn’t make out the handler’s eyes because they were hidden by a hat pulled down low on the forehead so that the features were obscured.
“That kid’s been braggin’ about how many fights that big black bird’s won,” Dodge Calder said. He took off a battered hat and ran skinny fingers through his thick white whiskers. “You might wanna make a bet on that cock. Name’s Satan.”
The kid’s rooster was so black that it was almost purple. It stretched its long neck toward its handler as if listening carefully to what was being said. Its wattles and comb had been trimmed like the other bird’s.
“I don’t bet on things I don’t know much about,” Fargo told Calder.
Calder nodded. “Don’t blame you. The Bryson brothers don’t lose often.”
Fargo had known Calder for a long time, and in fact he’d stopped off in Ashland to see him after leading some pilgrims up the Applegate Trail to the Willamette Valley. Calder had been a guide for a few years, which is how Fargo had gotten to know him, but Calder had liked Oregon so much that one year he’d decided to stay and see if there was any gold left in the area that some of the forty-niners had drifted to when the pickings got slim in California.
As far as the Trailsman knew, Calder hadn’t found any gold, but he’d found himself a home in Ashland, a little farther to the south of the gold fields. He’d done some trading and trapping and was making a living for himself one way and another.
Fargo was happy for Calder, but he wasn’t interested in settling down in one spot, no matter how easy it might be to make a living there. He was a natural wanderer, not cut out to be tied to one place for any length of time.
There wasn’t a lot to do in Ashland, and Calder had suggested the cockfight as a bit of entertainment on a Sunday afternoon. Fargo didn’t see much amusement in a couple of roosters trying to kill each other, but Calder wanted to get a bet down.
“I got my money on the Brysons,” he told Fargo. “The kid’s been lucky, but those old boys have been at this a long time, and they don’t like to lose. That rooster of theirs is rough as a cob. They call him General Washington, and he’s won four fights in a row. Fact is, nobody around here will fight against him. That’s why we got such a good crowd. Folks wouldn’t turn out like this to see just an ordinary fight.”
Satan against General Washington, Fargo thought. If the birds lived up to their names it would be quite a
